My Grandma

Yesterday's post got me thinking about my paternal grandmother.  She's been haunting my thoughts all day, not letting go, a constant presence nagging, picking, worrying at the back of my mind.  She was a confusing person for a young girl, and she's not become any clearer with the passage of time.

Eight of her nine siblings were born in Europe.  That's what she called it.  Not Galicia.  Not Poland.  Not Russia.  Europe.  When her parents decided to come to America, they sent Rae and her younger sister off to a cousin in London.  Apparently, two young girls were more trouble than they were worth.

That arrangement lasted less than a year.  My grandmother convinced her relatives that she was not going to live anywhere except where her parents and sisters and brother were living, and if that meant taking her 10 year old self and her 8 year old sister alone, in steerage, across the Atlantic Ocean, to people who had demonstrated in a fairly dramatic fashion that they didn't want them, well then that was what she was going to do.  And that is what they did.  Entrusted to a "family friend who got paid to do it" they came through Ellis Island and were reunited with their father.  He lost no time in telling them that since they were here, they could work to support themselves.  When I think about the kind of woman she became, I always come back to this story.  Remember, she was 10 years old.

School was important, but so was earning their keep.  My great-grandfather sold rags from a pushcart in the Bronx, was a big shot in the synagogue, and had a temper to match his fiery red hair.  When Rae intimated that she was being courted by an Irishman, he put an end to the affair in a dramatic, if never fully described to my youthful self, way.  I overheard bits and pieces of the story over the years, but one detail never varied.  "Joel always wanted Rae's money.  That's why he kept her at home."

A talented seamstress and designer, she earned $33/week in the millinery department of Macy's in the years before the depression.  That was an unheard of wage for a young woman in those years; her father took the entire envelope every payday.  In later years, she kept her cash in a small change purse safety-pinned to her bra.  When it came time to pay the bill, she'd turn and discretely take out "the bank."  She'd lick her fingers, rubbing the thumb and pointer together, and then begin to peel back the bills, counting and caressing each one.  She'd straighten them and then recount them and then, sometimes, allow me to hold them and be sure not to drop them or lose them until "the bank" was safely repinned.  She'd told me often enough about handing over her envelope; I never wondered why parting with the money was so difficult for her.

She was a powerful woman in her family of devoted men.  Three sons and a husband and she ran the show.  The boys grew up to be just what she wanted them to be, and she kept Daddooooo, my father, closer and more connected than the others. After all, he was the oldest son.  It was his responsibility to be there for his parents, to respond more quickly than his brothers, to take over the family business.  And so, he did.

Neither he nor his mother were very good at telling their parents to butt out of their lives.  She ditched her Irishman and he left his career in psychology because their parents had other plans.  As I watch the Cuters wrangle with their futures, I'm kinda sorta jealous of the parenting style that led to those decisions.  Obviously, I know exactly what would be best for each of them and the fact that I can't/won't/shouldn't/daren't insist that they follow my plan just kills me.  I would sleep better at night if they'd just do what I think they ought to do.  If they would just decide to be happy doing what I want them to do.  On my timetable, on my terms...... then I'll be happy.  And if they're kinda sorta miserable, well, isn't everybody?

That kind of life includes an acceptance of being unhappy, of looking over your shoulder to see where the next blow will fall, of life as a glass not only half empty but with a crack running down the side, threatening to split apart and let the whole thing pool helplessly, hopelessly, miserably and irretrievably on the floor.  There's no room for joy, though sorrow has place of honor at the table.  There are smiles and nachas (reflected glory and the warm feeling that comes with it ) from the children and good times, but joy, relaxed and restorative happiness, 15 minutes without angst... well, the concept was inconceivable.

They were bitter people who felt short-changed by life, who thought that they'd been dealt an unfair hand, but one they were forced to play.  Taking charge of their own lives, being responsible for their own happiness never occurred to them.   Things happened to them.  Life was a bitter pill with a few happy moments interspersed amidst the pain.  It wasn't a placid depression; it was a loud and angry and aggressive toward the world which was attacking them, day after day, at home and at work.  Relaxation might be fatal; Europe's Jews had stopped worrying and look what happened to them.    

These were bright, intelligent people who were involved in their communities and their families.  They read copiously and argued vociferously and were always ready to listen to a young voice, testing her opinions in the conversation around the dinner table.  There was great respect for learning and erudition, for tradition and loyalty to the family.  They worked hard, building and rebuilding businesses in ever more challenging times, but I'm not sure either was ever satisfied with anything they did or saw.

Except for me.

And maybe, Nance, this is how I had the courage to lock myself in the lioness's den and read her the riot act.  I knew that she loved me.  She looked at me with soft eyes ....when she thought no one was watching her.  She never let my Grandpa cheat me at cards, though she hardly cared about what happened to my cousins.  She made the hamburgers exactly the way I liked them, even though they were too rare for my siblings' tastebuds.  I always thought she and my dad saw themselves in me more than in anyone else in the family.  They never tried to push me in one direction or the other.... or perhaps they did and I just didn't notice.

It's the same thing either way, in the end.  I'm always telling TBG that I come from hearty peasant stock.  Perhaps my courage came from knowing, on some level, that I was doing what they wished they could/should/dared to have done.  I do know that I am happier, more joyous, more content than either of them thought they had a right to be.  Maybe it just took 3 generations to figure it out.

The Wedding Invitation

G'ma and I are going to a family wedding. She's met the groom, my first cousin's son, but she doesn't remember where or when. Actually, to say that she's met him is an exaggeration. What she actually said was, “I must have met him sometime, don't you think?” Ah, yes, welcome to our world.

A Save the Date card arrived in the spring; it had no last names anywhere. The picture of the happy couple afforded us no clues, either. TBG and I were stumped. Visiting G'ma and finding a similar card on her coffee table helped my synapses to snap together and make the family connection. We laughed about it for a long time. The invitations followed in due course, one to each of our homes. It was decision time – should we go?

It's an easy flight from Tucson's tiny airport to LAX's long concourses, but Southwest will push G'ma in style while I follow dutifully behind, toting the walker and the carry-ons and the medicine. We're arriving a few hours before the ceremony and we're only staying overnight, so there shouldn't be too much to carry. Of course, I am packing for a woman who managed to fill the trunk of the car with necessities for an afternoon at the beach, so we may well be checking a valise. Time will tell.

For now, I'm enjoying the tumult the event is creating within my family of origin. My cousin, the groom's father, is divorced from the groom's mother. It was an amicable separation to those of us on the outside; she even returned to the family fold to nurse his father during a difficult death. Why? I always liked Ob; in fact, I liked him more than I liked your cousin."  All that changed when she reopened the alimony issue long after they broke up and the kids were grown. It was ugly and expensive, as these things are, and my cousin can't bring himself to say her name aloud these days. All this was made clear to me over the phone, in response to my email that I would be attending the wedding, G'ma in tow.

The phone call itself is a notable event. We've exchanged emails and seen each other at other family gatherings, but our lives don't intersect beyond that. He's not an easy man, though I think his intentions are good. After thanking me for coming he told me that G'ma and I had chosen the nicest hotel, but that he couldn't stay there because the ex-wife might be there and he had almost decided to avoid the whole thing rather than see her.... but he loves his son..... but she is evil and …..he hadn't spoken to his sister in 10 months because her husband had been much too nice to the ex-wife at their other son's wedding. I was there representing his side of the family, wasn't I? He just wanted me to remember that fact.

The outpouring of venom, of pain, the vitriol of barely controlled rage was remarkable even from this man who is angry or aggravated or peeved most every day. But this is supposed to be a happy time, isn't it? A time of joining, of enlarging the family circle, of expanding the boundaries of love and devotion. Okay...... "I'm not promising to be rude to anyone, Cuz," was my somewhat tentative reply.

My family has a tendency to forget warm and loving piece of these kinds of celebrations. The whole scene reminded me of my own grandmother's reaction to the news that I was marrying TBG, a Protestant by birth. With a scowl and a grimace and several extremely loud grunts, she announced that she would never acknowledge the marriage, nor would she attend the ceremony. In a moment of stunning clarity, I realized that it made no difference to me. I was making a wise choice, and she was in no position to deny my happiness. So, I had Daddooooo drive me to her apartment. I locked us in her bedroom, with Daddooooo on the other side of the door, and I told her that she was welcome but not required to attend. The wedding was happening with or without her. And, by the way, did she think that my grandfather, her husband, who'd loved me better than all the other grandchildren combined (it's true, and fodder for another post) was looking down from heaven and feeling glad that his wife was trying to ruin my big day? I doubted that very much. “And so, Grandma, come, don't come, whatever you want to do is fine with me. But I'm getting married on Sunday. I know Daddy would love to have you join us. Let him know if he should pick you up.”

My father had been pounding on the door, screaming at me that my words were going to kill her, but the old broad was tougher than that. She scowled when I left the room, but she showed up for the party. I wish I could find my wedding album so that you could see her, wrinkled face scrunched up into a walnut, displeasure oozing out of every pore, but there. I was glad, for my father's sake, and for the opportunity to avoid the drama her absence would have occasioned. I wish she could have smiled, but that just wasn't her style.

Nor, it seems, is it my cousin's style. There's a need to put one's own drama at the center of another's celebration that is vaguely unseemly. Attention should be focused on the couple......who have the same initials ….. jAm ….. it's a nice monogram, don't you think? We should be smiling at the fact that people are flying in from all over America, just to see them wed. The black and shiny hot pink invitations were as unusual as any I've seen; why weren't we talking about that?

When I told G'ma about the phone call, she looked at me out of the corner of her face (it's more than just the corner of her eyes.... the entire musculature moves.... if she weren't so camera shy it'd be viral on YouTube) and asked me to remind her when we got there because she knew she'd never remember it on her own.  And then we both laughed. It's a family thing.

Karate Kid Redux

What a wonderful two hours we spent watching Will Smith's kid hang out with Jackie Chan. Yes, it's a remake, but this one is at least as good as Mr. Miyage and “wax on – wax off”.  This time it's "jacket on - jacket off," but the message of discipline and training and respect is still the same.  Michael Wilbon may think that it's "too young" for him, but I think he's wrong.

Jackie Chan always does his own stunts, and if you didn't believe it before, just watch him walk up the steps in this film.  Think Walter Brennan in To Have and Have Not or Gunsmoke's Chester; the hitch in the step that's been earned by a lifetime of enjoyable hard work.  There's jauntiness tempered with age and experiences, and a rueful acceptance of the fact that some parts wake up faster than others now.  In an understated way, he's telling us that we can watch the movie we saw as kids, and that we can enjoy it every bit as much as we did in 1984, albeit from a different perspective.  He certainly seems to be having a very good time.

Jaden Smith cannot weigh 80 pounds soaking wet, and yes, I'm sure he got a leg up in the business by having connected parents, but none of that matters once you watch him training.  He does his own stunts and he's every bit as aggravated as any other 12 year old if an interviewer doubts him.  His little boy's frame has definition, and his form doing push-ups (something on which I have definite opinions) is perfect.  Sparring with Jackie Chan...... the kid's peaked and he's not even a teenager.  He's completely believable as a son, a friend, a student and an athlete.  

There's a car in this version, and a girlfriend, and a bad teacher and a competition and the fact that it's all predictable only adds to its charm.  It's big on values - real values like hang up your jacket, apologize if you make a mistake, don't be afraid to ask for what you want and to work hard if you want to succeed - and some might find it heavy-handed.  But asking the 5 and 7 year olds outside the theatre what they learned from it, Amster and TBG heard respect your mother and work hard and focus.  There are worse ways to leave a movie.

The Whole World is Watching

It's the World Cup - soccer's quadrennial international get-together. Hosted in Africa for the first time since its inception in 1930, it's America's least watched sporting event over which everyone else in the world is obsessing.  People are getting up at ridiculous hours of the night to watch their country kick for the honor and the glory of getting out of the group round.  Do not worry, Grasshopper.  Elucidation is on its way.

First, I should establish my bona fides.  I understand the basics of the game.  I watched it, sometimes twice a day, for a decade and a half.  I coached, until the 7 year olds asked me if I realized that everyone on the team could kick the ball better than I could.  At that point I retired to the post of Team Mom, a position I relinquished reluctantly when the Little Cuter went off to college.  The high schools in Marin thought they played pretty well, and the championship games usually involved a school or a player with whom one of us had a history, so I saw a fair amount of what passed for real soccer.

Watching these players on tv puts the lie to that theory, but that's fodder for a different post.  Some things are unchanged - aiming is still crucial, as those who sat on the sidelines beside me heard me repeat often enough.  It does no good to trap the ball and strike the ball if you don't also aim the ball.
There are yellow cards (for warnings) and red cards (for more egregious acts leading to an ousting from play) and refs.  Of course, the refs in the World Cup are wearing headsets with microphones, not little black boxes on their belts as the NFL refs do.  We can't hear their words, but someone must be listening.  Or, perhaps, they are merely a fashion accessory? 

Players still stop and shoot the ball with their heads.  Our star midfielder's parents were often heard to remark "There go some more brain cells" after another amazing header.  It couldn't have done much permanent damage - she's a medical student now - but I was always glad that the Little Cuter had other skills on the field.  

The uniforms are as colorful as the pink and silver the Big Cuter's coach once tried to pass off as light red and metal to his co-ed team of 2nd graders.  The fact that the best player on the team was a girl mitigated the humiliation somewhat.  In just a few days of watching I've seen orange shoes and yellow shoes and a goalie named Green in a green outfit.  


There is nothing to be said about that beyond relating the facts.  In case you were unaware of the tradition, goalies can choose their own outfits; they do not have to match the color that their teammates are wearing.  OK, I can't stand it.... does he have such issues remembering where his locker is that he must color-coordinate it to his name?  The goalies are easily recognizable, and the USofA apparently has a very good one.  Tim Howard jumps really really high and may just have some broken ribs after being kicked in the chest while blocking the ball.  Somehow, I think he's going to play on Friday regardless of the pain.  He's 31 years old and these events happen every 4 years..... I don't think he'll feel any better when he's 35, do you?

The pros are prone to acting fouls.  There's lots of flopping on the ground, especially if the ref is right there to hear your moans and groans.  Surprisingly, most of the players pop right back up if a foul isn't called.  You don't see NFL or NBA players writhing for effect, but this is not an American game.  Is there something to be deduced from this?  I wonder.  I'm reminded of the British chastising America for coming down so hard on BP because it is a British company. I'm sorry.... I don't care if they are British or Nebraskan... the Gulf is dying.  Yet, the whinging* continues.

The broadcasters are less annoying than they might be; they sound smarter with a British accent.  I don't know if they are good broadcasters, but at least I understand most of the words .  It's much better than watching the Stanley Cup finals where the words were said, in English, but neither TBG nor I could make sense of what they were saying. 

The fans are fabulous - Nelson Mandela tearing up, Bishop Tutu dancing, thousands gathered before outdoor jumbotrons.  There is bizarre headgear - a woman was wearing a sculpture of New York City on her head - and the ubiquitous vuvuzela.




Somewhere between a mosquito buzzing and a boiler exploding, it sums up the experience for me.  It's different, it's foreign, it's vaguely uncomfortable but the fans just love it.  I may not have World Cup Fever, but I'm not minding it as background to my days.


*whinge  Chiefly British     To complain or protest, especially in an annoying or persistent manner.

TBG likes to say that America, like Americans, is fat around the middle.  At the risk of offending a reader or two who might actually inhabit the 500 miles of Kansas, Wyoming, Texas, Nebraska, Iowa... you know, those square states which are on the way to but not quite really there....  it's kind of extra.  After a week in Chicago, one of the all time great towns for those who like to eat, I'm thinking that I ought to stop repeating his joke.  It feels just a little too close for comfort.  I'm hiking tomorrow and my favorite shorts won't snap.

How did this happen?  Well, for starters there was breakfast at Ann Sather's.  I've been eating there, at one location or another, since I was a graduate student 35 years ago.  We used to go for the apple pancakes, waiting in line on Sunday mornings in the snow, knowing we'd be warm, inside and out, once they were on the table before us.   There's a branch around the corner from the kids' apartment, and it was empty at 11 o'clock last Friday morning.  How could we resist?  

I wanted orange juice, but I couldn't resist ordering the SOB Juice, just for the chance to say the name.  Strawberry, orange and banana frothing in front of me.... this is what was left after I put it down the first time:

I wasn't that thirsty; it was just that good.

In the mood for protein, I ordered an omelet with tomatoes and chose the sweet roll over the toast.

Are you starting to see how the week was going to progress?  That is not 2 rolls.... it's one roll.  And they brought us an extra serving by mistake and laughed and told us to take it home.  There were potatoes next to the eggs, but by the time I finished half my roll I was wasted.  

I spent the rest of the afternoon licking melted sugary syrupy glaze off my fingers, inner arm, camera and cell phone.  Everybody wanted to get into the act.

We ate three meals a day, every day, and at none of them did I consider the health benefits of the food.  Chicago hot dogs only exist in Chicago ... how could I turn them down?  Greek Islands makes saganaki better than anyplace I've ever eaten

We had to ask for another loaf or two of the sesame bread .... there was taramosalata to be wiped up, too.  After appetizers and salads our dinners were superfluous.  I was grateful that I'd left G'ma in Tucson.  Had she been there, she would have ordered baklava and my destruction would have been complete.

In Michigan City on Monday night, we ate at Rodini's ... ok, I'll be honest, we gorged at Rodini's.  It sounded Italian to me, but the decor was Greek and the food was steak and fish.  We tried to refuse the appetizer plate, but the waitress wouldn't hear of it.  After garlic bread, meatballs, fried chicken livers and fried zucchini I was ready to go home.  But there was salad, a loaf of fresh baked bread, and filet mignon covered in bleu cheese and mushrooms to be devoured.  I made it about half way through before surrendering.  I almost cried when she asked if we wanted desert.

And then there was the alcohol.  I'm not a big drinker when I'm out on the town, but every meal was a celebration which demanded a toast.  We had Botox Bubblies and Bellini Gone Wilde at Wilde, where all things Oscar are celebrated.  Seret and Mr. DreamyCakes were downtown for an appointment, and when they caught up with us it was time to toast again.  There was no abuse of alcoholic substances, but there was certainly consumption.  At Rodini's I was served a water tumbler filled with clear liquid in response to Stoli on the rocks.  Had she added water?  Nope,  it was all vodka.  I've never left half of my one and only drink in the glass before.

It was the Killer Margaritas at Cesars (http://killermargaritas.com.... seriously... that's the url) that finally did me in.  The kids had been talking about them all week, so off we went to celebrate my departure.  This is a large and powerful potion; it took me the better part of 2 hours to finish it.  The fresh night air felt good, and then there we were, at Phoebe's Cupcakes. Yes, of course they had one with yellow cake and white frosting for me.  There were sprinkles on top and inside and it's making me smile just to think about it.   There was Death by Chocolate and Pineapple Right Side Up and then there was the one SIR decided to try... the one with crispy bacon on top.  

Yes, bacon on a cupcake.  It was definitely time for me to go home.  I left the kids with the leftovers; they won't be grocery shopping any time soon.

Punch Drunk

I've traveled too far today - far from my daughter and the boy who loves her (which I know because he told me so.... and I'm not blaming it on the margaritas, either) and my friends and the best city in America.  I'm exhausted, wrung out, altitude sickness headachy and tired.  My heart is glad and my brain is humming but my fingers are not happy typing.

So, TTFN.

What?

 Nobody remembers Tigger's good bye? 

 Ta Ta For Now.

Doggies and Death

Barney was a gorgeous reddish Golden Retriever.  He bounded rather than walked.  His bark was deep and powerful and concussive.  He never jumped on strangers, but his furious licking and lapping and loving could easily be construed as an attack - a friendly attack, but an invasion of personal space nonetheless.  The Little Cuter has strong memories of this afternoon when they were both young:

When the cancer ended his life in the vet's office, his owners were told that disposal was up to the doctor.  "No way.... we want to bury him at our lake house."  "Bring in a container and I'll look the other way," the vet replied and so they returned with a suitcase and wrapped him up and took him to a burial site in the dune next to their weekend retreat.  The hole was deep and difficult to excavate; the brother and the husband spent the better part of an afternoon sharing the shovel and sweating.  Finally, three feet deep and wide, they placed him and covered him and secured the location with a stone.  A very big stone.  


Several years later, a landscaper decided to remove some ground cover and trees on that side of the house.  They forgot to tell him to leave the stone undisturbed, and now Barney is still there... somewhere.  They know the general location, but specificity was sacrificed along with the flora.
*****
Murphy was little more than a large hamster, but we loved his daschundness unabashedly.  He was the Little Cuter's animal, but her intentions were bigger than her capabilities so we all shared the responsibility.  He came when she was 8, and died when she went off to college a decade later.  It was a slow process, and TBG spent most of those last 3 days watching him lie in the sun in our bedroom and waste away.  I went our to pick up Chinese food and, of course, the beast took that opportunity for a death throe spasm.  When I returned with dinner, he was dead.  


We ate, then put him in his sleeping bag then in a plastic bag then in a cardboard box.  We decorated it with his name and some loving thoughts and selected a space to the side of our driveway.  It had a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, and was accessible from the neighbor's yard so that the Little Cuter could see him even if we sold the house.  We said a few words and shed a few tears and then TBG took the shovel to dig the grave.  Half an inch into the soil, he hit bedrock.  There was nothing to do but laugh.


Murph spent the night in the box in the garage, and in the morning I took him to the Humane Society.  They offered three options - a single cremation with return of his ashes for several hundred dollars, a group cremation with return of our portion of the ashes for somewhat less, or, for $20, I could have him rendered.  Did I want the lovely volunteer to explain the process?  Not really.  He'd be turned into fertilizer and she left me with a lovely thought :  "The next time you see a blooming rose, you can imagine that your pet helped it grow." 


For the first time since he'd died, I was able to smile.
*****
These somewhat random stories have been prompted by spending the weekend with my grieving friend. She's unable to let herself off the hook, knowing, concretely and absolutely, that there was more she could have done for her brother as he lay dying.  Confronting the physicians.  Transferring him to another, better, fancier, more prestigious hospital.  Understanding the ramifications of waiting to begin treatment.  Not taken a vacation when he first became ill.  Grasping the seriousness of the situation at an earlier point in his illness.  On and on and on, she berated herself.  She wasn't looking for comfort.  She seemed just to need to vent.  


"Medicine is an art, not a science" didn't get me very far.  "The outcome was destined to be the same regardless of what you did or didn't do" just gave her the opportunity to list, once again, all the things she knew she should have said or asked or demanded.  "How could they know?"  "Why didn't I....."  "I wish I had...."  She was angry with herself and I didn't have a handle on the door to her pain.  


She was able to smile at the treatment the Veterans' Administration had provided, and appreciated the benefits (transportation to, a burial site in, and a head stone provided in any national cemetery except Arlington) they offered, but there were no smiles at the end of the story.  There was only pain and angst.


And, it seemed that every time we began talking about her brother, we ended up with Barney or Murphy and the story of their graves.  I'm not sure how that happened or even what it meant, except that it left us with grins instead of grimaces.


It was a much better place for us to be.

Mourning

She is very, very sad. Sadder than I've ever known her to be, and I've known her since 1978.  I stood up  at her wedding, after teasing him into finally saying yes to the whole idea.  Actually, it wasn't teasing so much as pointing out the realities of the situation and forcing him to make a choice.  She listened, she laughed, and she took the idea back home.  It's a perfect marriage - at least as far as someone who's not a fly on the wall can determine.  There's respect and admiration and shared values and aspirations along with genuine affection and delight.The things about which they argue arise only because one of them is too kind or too understanding or too generous.  Smart, funny, interesting and interested..... life's had its ups and downs but she's never been this blue.

Her mother died in her arms as they were walking to the car.  At 92,  it was surprising but by no means shocking.  There's a hole where she used to exist, but it's filled with love.  After all, no one lives forever. She organized the service and notified the extensive extended family and grieved.  Through it all, her brother was by her side.  He wasn't exactly helpful, but he was there.  And when it came to the grunt work, to the boring, heavy lifting side of things, he never refused her.  He never complained or asked why or annoyed her with absurd objections... all those behaviors which I see from siblings at the passing of a parent.  She was older, she was wiser, she was the decision maker.  He was her support, her backstop, the one who never said no.

And now he's gone.  An unknown infection that wasn't ignored but wasn't able to be treated eventually sent him to the hospital and then to his grave.  He was a big, strong, uncomplaining sort of guy, and to see him wasting away, day after painful day, week after long and worry-filled week, was almost more than she could bear.  There were long periods of unconsciousness followed by brief and wonderful moments when he was awake and really there with them.  "Should we sing?" they'd ask him as his eyes fluttered open.  He'd smile and beg them to spare him that particular joy.  That was all that they could do for him, and it never seemed like it was enough.

She's worked in hospitals for decades, and knows more than anyone how to manipulate the system to insure above-average care.  She knows that it's possible to refuse and to question and to request with assurance in your voice and she's not immune to the absurdities of hospital life.  After all, she'd been coming and going for more than a month, every day, week after week..... did the security guard really need to see her id every single time?  Couldn't they issue her a pass like the airlines give their crews?  Her brother was dying upstairs; waiting 15 minutes to pass through the checkpoint was torture.  Absolutely torture.  He needed her by his side.... she'd only left to sleep.... the guard recognized her from the dozens of times he'd seen her before..... why couldn't they just let her in?

It was little things like that which seemed to affect her more than they'd ever done before.  Suddenly, every moment was fraught with importance - not filled, but fraught.  It was terrifying and frightening and filled with sorrow, every single minute, day and night, of every single day.  There was nothing she could do for the person who had done everything for her and it was taking its toll.  Bit by tiny bit, it never got any better.  It just got sadder.  The helplessness overwhelmed her.

The bed-side vigil took its toll.  She was tired and wondered why, since she was doing nothing but sitting.  Writing helped a little, but there was nothing which could really bind the wound.  Was his death a relief?  It didn't feel that way.  A modest man, he'd never told her that he was "tutor of the year."   The presence of his students at the service she planned revealed his secret.  Was there more about her baby brother, a big man with a huge heart and a key to her home and her past?  She can't ever ask him.

She's bereft.

John Wooden

99 years on the planet.  10 National Championships.  Hundreds of young men who put on their socks just the way he taught them.  ESPN is maudlin as sportscasters wipe tears from their eyes.  John Wooden died on Friday night.

Last winter I wrote about his influence on my life:

Watching John Wooden at his eponymous basketball tournament reminded me of what a fine man he is. One of the current Bruins looked straight into the camera and said "When Coach Wooden is around you stand up straighter and you're always acting the way you know he would expect you to act." 19 years old and he'd been in the presence of greatness and he knew it and he wanted to live up to it. That is a role model.

So when Coach Wooden quoted Abraham Lincoln (his favorite person after his wife, Nellie.... I told you, this guy is the real deal!) I paid attention and found the germ of a resolution:

"Mr. Lincoln said that people are generally as happy as they allow themselves to be"

This resolution has been life altering for me, and I happily add myself to the long list of people who have been influenced by Coach Wooden.  When I'm going down a sad path, I conjure up his face and his calm voice and it helps.  Not always, but most of the time.  And that's enough, because life isn't always fair.  After all, Coach's beloved wife, the only woman he'd ever kissed, died in 1985.  He's written her a love note every month since then, on the anniversary of her death.  He died thinking that it was still too soon for him to share the notes; his pain was too raw.

He leaves behind him children and grand-children and great-grand-children and decades of players and fans.  His death was peaceful and not expected.  He lived a useful, thoughtful, examined life.  He will be missed.

On The Plane

I'm not sure why leaving for Chicago two days after I returned from the Carolinas seemed like a good idea to me when we made these plans, but it did. I liked the notion of being peripatetic, of feeling unanchored to a particular place, of moving. Flying doesn't bother me; I like airports and airplanes and traveling above the clouds. Yes, the seats are small and the big guy next to me is flesh-ing over into my space, but TBG is across the aisle and the Little Cuter and SIR are waiting at the other end so I'm willing to put up with some discomfort for the pleasure of their company. Riding in a car for 3 hours would put me somewhere in New Mexico. Flying for 3 hours puts me in the Windy City. It's a no brainer.

Southwest is my favorite carrier, and they are better now that they issue numbered boarding passes. No more arriving 2 hours early to sit on the floor in a line. The overhead bins are spacious enough for most suitcases (alas, not TBG's) to fit in wheels front, and there's even enough leg room for TBG's 6' of man. Continental served me snacks on all 4 of my flight segments last week, but their seats were narrower than I am, and I'm not very big at all. I'll pass on the processed meat and cheese spreads everytime, if space is the trade-off.I'm always surprised to see how confused some travelers become in the waiting area. A mother of 3 extremely well-behaved children couldn't figure out how to line up..... and there were stanchions with numbers right in front of us. I didn't mind sharing my expertise, and the grateful look on her face made me feel somewhat abashed for thinking ill of her. Somewhat..... after all, it's not that hard.

The flight attendant had to use her disciplinarian's voice to get all the iPhones and iPads and iPods turned off. “No game mode.... no airplane mode.... OFF means COMLETELY OFF.” I'm not sure that the plane will drop from the sky should a passenger not comply with her request, but Nellie the Netbook was dark and stored in my carry-on, just in case. It would be nice to think that our pilot is as competent as Sully was, but just in case, I'm compliant.

I'm watching out the window and trying to compare the land masses and rivers to the map on the back page of the in-flight magazine, but I'm failing miserably. I asked the flight attendant and she hadn't a clue. I think that I would be more curious than she is, were I to travel the same route day after day. Oh, well.......

Some states are divided into squares, and some are divided into circles and some are sub-division after sub-division after sub-division blending into a city. Flying into Houston is a prime example. There are acres of green trees, then neighborhoods plopped onto scraped surfaces in the middle of more green trees. Some areas have left the flora and seem to be erecting houses around the trees, but most of the developers seem to have taken the easy way out and have bladed the land clear. I don't think you notice it as you're driving towards the Open House, but from the air the destruction is pretty clear. I began to feel like a curmudgeon as I contemplated the bare plots with their curving driveways; it was time to open my book.

Reading on the plane isn't the same as reading on the couch. I can't snuggle up with a pillow in the corner, I can't adjust the reading lamp exactly right, and the fools next to me are talking in voices loud enough to be heard in the back of the plane. But there's no one to call, no emails can be answered, and the movie is not worth watching. A crossword puzzle would be a good alternative, but the friendly fellow beside me is likely to try to help. Honestly... just maintain your flesh within the confines of your own seat and let me be.

Hmmmm...... maybe I was right when I began to type this post. Having a quiet conversation with my readers keeps me connected, feeling useful, and helps to pass the time. Thanks for being there (here?) for me.

A More Personal Look at Corporations

Standing in the 20-or less aisle today in WallyWorld, I unloaded my Bayer and chocolate bars onto the small check-out counter.  These were in the cart

Our not-so-guilty pleasures were on sale in this awkward size.  Ever one for saving a dollar, I heaved them into the basket fairly easily.  Gravity was a big help.  When it came to having their bar codes scanned, I realized that the creator of this packaging had never actually paid for one in a grocery store.  

How, you wonder, did I come to this conclusion?  Read on, grasshopper.

There are no clearly marked numerical prices on anything except books and greeting cards anymore.  Everything has a bar code and the checker must scan it.  I include this information for those people who, like the apocryphal story told about our first Bush president (I know, I wanted it to be true, too) have no idea what a bar code looks like.  This obviously includes the designer of this packaging, who was given a list of items to be included in the design, but who had no idea to what use they were to be put.

To continue.  I had shlepped those heavy cartons off a high stack and lowered them into the basket by use of the handle (marked by the small purple arrow).

It seemed only logical that the bar code would be on the side facing UP so that the cashier could scan it and I could lift the box without having to move it.  

But, no no no, Dear Reader.  the bar code is on the bottom.  Not the side, so the wand could reach it.  Not the top.  On the bottom.

As the cashier came out from behind her work station, the woman in line (Query: do you wait ON line, or IN line?) behind me saw me shaking my head and said "Obviously designed by a man."

TBG calls me to task for these random sexist comments  (he takes offense on behalf of his gender, of whom he is a shining example) but in this case I took her point.  

Honestly, if the person who created this had ever purchased one this design would never have happened.

*****

I met a unicorn today.  

Actually, there were two of them.  They rang my bell on time.  They were clean and made eye contact and had firm handshakes.  They let me say my piece and agreed with what I'd said and then they didn't bother me until the job was done.  They explained everything that they had done, and went back with me to check that it was perfect.  They brought me a replacement part for an item which was "too hard to push" and left me another if this one should fail.  The entire operation took less than an hour, and when they were finished I had a new phone carrier using my same phone number and internet connectivity that is much faster than what I'd had in the morning.  On top of it all, I will be saving about $1500 each year by making this change.

What?  Good service?  Helpful technicians?  Friendly well spoken young people?  Yes, indeed.  When I told the Little Cuter (my first caller after the switch) that Comcast was here and that they were wonderful, she announced that I had discovered a fanciful, unimaginable, never seen in real life creature -- "Tell them they are unicorns... with a shiny horn." 

I'm a fan.

*****

On both coasts, Coke is soda.  In the mid-west, Coke is pop and a soda  has ice cream, syrup, whipped cream, nuts and a cherry.  This is important information to have prior to inviting a child in Chicago for a soda when you have exactly $2 in your wallet.

The Little Cheese sent me this ad from 1999.  I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

Peacefully bobbing in the warmest and softest ocean waters last Sunday afternoon, the only slimy thing I felt was a ground dwelling creature .... and I moved off him rather quickly.  The water turned green and then a deeper blue and the wave tops were browner than they are at Long Beach, but then the soil is redder in the Carolinas than on Long Island.  There were school kids and families and bathing beauties and for a while I was able to forget about BP's piercing of the earth, and of Gaia's revenge.

I really do imagine her, wherever she is, watching in horror.  As Nance says, I'm a Warner - I just know that something bad is going to happen and I have no compunctions about warning friend and foe alike of the impending danger.  I need to be sure that I can extricate myself from a situation before I open a potential can of worms and find myself without a blow-out preventer or a less painful cliche.  

Because this really is a cliche.  Big business looks at return on investment and writes off fines and penalties and losses on their taxes.  Little businesses can do that, too, of course.  But little businesses don't usually end up wrecking the Gulf of Mexico.   And if they cause a comparable amount of damage, they are small enough that they can be allowed to fail.  The punishment can't fit this crime, and to BP it's only money.  Is anyone out there still not buying Exxon gas because of the Valdez?  How long will we wait before we start pulling into the BP stations again?

Sigh.

Whether or not there are plumes of oil under the surface, whether there are 12,000 or 45,000 barrels of oil escaping daily from a hole that BP drilled a mile under the sea, somebody didn't check his work.  And, worse than that, nobody worried.  What kinds of mothers did these people have?  Weren't they told not to wear torn underwear lest they be embarrassed in the Emergency Room?  Didn't anyone tell them to have the fire extinguisher close at hand just in case?  These are people who probably never mark the location of the exit doors on airplanes or in movie theaters.  They nodded dutifully at the safety lectures, and went on ignoring the risks, not planning for catastrophe.

And look at what happened.  Just look at it.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/may/10/deepwater-horizon-oil-junk-shot

ADDENDUM:  Should you wish to contribute to the rescue effort, click here.

On Friendship

It's been a wonderful weekend.  There was laughter and a road trip and fine food and drink.  MTF was  the hostess with the mostest and I found that the Carolinas are filled with the nicest humans on the planet.  Even the weather cooperated, raining only when we were in the car and on our last day together, when our plans included breakfast and lunch at home combined with MTF's occasional trip to the airport.  No need to go further than the porches; the party was the people and we were all right there.

Reunion Roomie and I have a checkered past -- my 9th grade boyfriend took her to the Spring Dance instead of taking me.  Funny how those things take on a life of their own, sometimes.  This one never grew into dislike;  it was always a mostly funny story.  The Boston Babe and I had shared classes and clubs and an in-school friendship but not much else.  Somehow, without any contact since 1969, we have all become the same person.

We woke up at the same time. We ate the same foods at the same time of day and at the same pace. We read the same books and saw the same tv shows – what are the odds that the 4 of us, none of whom are regulars, would have watched the same episode of Extreme Makeover/Home Edition? And that we would have had the same reaction to the family's antics when they moved the bus?

It was more than that, though. There was a comfort, a familiarity, a sense of well-being that we shared. MTF's house was spotless and clutter-free - keeping it that way was never an issue for any of us, though I, for one, am an inveterate creator of piles. We were all comfortable around her kitchen island and no one minded when our early dinner stretched into the evening and made the trip downtown an impossibility.

Our yearbook took center stage for most of the weekend. Someone would mention a teacher or a play or an old boyfriend and we'd open the book and fall in. “Knew her” “Don't know him” “Was she in our grade?” “Nasty girl” “Dorky but nice” “Look at that hair/moustache/outfit” The best was when someone began with “Ooooooo, I remember the time.......” which led to an epic retelling of love or embarrassment or a date gone awry. We shared memories of making out and sneaking around and it all felt like it had happened an hour ago.

How did we fly back there so effortlessly? How did our over-lapping memories make us so happy? They were more than nostalgia and less than reminders. Forty years have passed … surely these stories should have lost their power to amuse. Yet, there we were, huddled around MTF's gorgeous kitchen table, poring over pictures and giggling.

I'm leaning towards the notion that water seeks its own level, that we were destined to reconnect. But that seems to be too simple. 

Was it serendipity that brought the four of us together for a weekend of pleasure? There was happenstance, for sure, but I'm looking for a larger meaning, for a reason. I don't know why I need it, but I do.

Perhaps, if I can figure it out, I can bottle it and share it with you, Dear Readers. My favorite people -- and that means you - should have the opportunity to experience that kind of joy.